No Shorts Allowed: Lessons from an Odyssey Nobody Asks For

A friend from Germany was on vacation in Việt Nam when something terrible happened to her. While out with friends at a pub in Hồ Chí Minh City on a Sunday night, she was allegedly drugged – knockout drops or something similar slipped into her drink – and later that night became the victim of sexual violence. It took several days for her to piece together what had happened, for her mind to break through the protective walls her body had built as a defense mechanism. And when it did, everything came crashing in at once: despair, panic, fear, disgust, shame.

She reached out to me and my Vietnamese boyfriend late on a Thursday night. She needed people by her side. Someone to listen, someone to help navigate a situation that would be overwhelming anywhere in the world – but especially in a foreign country, with a foreign language, and structures you don’t understand. Most of all, she needed to know she wasn’t alone and that what happened to her was being taken seriously.

So my bf and I set out. We arrived at her apartment after midnight and immediately started trying to find help. What followed was a ten-hour odyssey across the city that taught us more about navigating crisis in a foreign country than we ever wanted to know. This is the log of that odyssey – not as a complaint, but as a map for anyone who might ever find themselves in the dark, looking for a door.

Friday, after midnight: looking for a door that’s open

Our first instinct was to call for help. We tried emergency numbers, hospital hotlines, anything we could find online. Some calls went unanswered – not unusual for the middle of the night anywhere in the world, but brutal when you’re the one holding the phone. Others connected us to staff who explained, politely, that they couldn’t help at that hour and suggested we come in person during regular hours. My boyfriend handled all the Vietnamese-language calls, which was invaluable – without a local speaker, we would have hit a wall immediately.

After two hours of calls leading nowhere, we considered going to a nearby private hospital directly. But then a local psychotherapist friend called back and recommended a different private clinic where she believed we’d find the right support. It was already 3 AM. We made the decision to regroup and meet again at 9 in the morning.

Friday morning: the carousel begins

We took a Grab to the first private hospital. The check-in process was thorough – forms, passport, a deposit of 5 million đồng (around 190 EUR at the time), blood pressure, weight, height. All of this happened in a busy public area: noisy children, beeping alarms, chatty elderly patients. The hospital itself was well-designed, air-conditioned, with relaxing background music – my friend remarked, with the kind of dark humor that gets you through days like this, that the soft interior reminded her of something anatomical. I’ll leave that to your imagination.

After registration, she changed into a hospital gown and was called in for a consultation with a gynecologist. The interview was brief and conducted in English. The doctor was sympathetic but ultimately told us the hospital didn’t have the authority to provide an official assessment of injuries resulting from sexual assault. He recommended we go to a government hospital instead – one that had the mandate to help.

We got the deposit refunded, left discouraged and fighting back tears, and called another Grab.

The government hospital

The difference between the private and government hospital was immediate and visceral: heat instead of air conditioning, crowds instead of calm, motorbikes and street vendors flanking the entrance, whirring fans instead of ambient music. The atmosphere felt more like a busy train station than a medical facility – which, to be fair, is what happens when a hospital serves a metropolitan area of over 21 million people.

At the check-in desk, with my boyfriend translating, we explained the situation once more. After much deliberation, the staff informed us that the hospital couldn’t act without a formal request from the local police station where the crime occurred. This is where things got complicated: my friend had no memory of the exact location. The drugs had done their work. She’d woken up in a stranger’s bed, fled the apartment in a haze of shame and confusion, hailed a taxi, and tried to put as much distance as possible between herself and whatever had happened. Recording an address was not on her mind – survival was.

She did, however, remember the pub where the night had started. So we booked another Grab and headed for the nearest police station.

No shorts allowed

It was noon when we arrived, and this is where we learned our first lesson about navigating bureaucracy in crisis: timing and dress code matter everywhere, but especially in Vietnam. And honestly? Germany would give Vietnam a run for its money in the bureaucracy Olympics. These two countries are brothers in spirit when it comes to the sacred art of paperwork, proper procedure, and the unshakeable conviction that rules exist for a reason – even when, and especially when, the reason is unclear to everyone involved.

We were informed that it was lunchtime and that we should return in ninety minutes. We were also told – with considerable emphasis – that our shorts were unacceptable attire for a police station. No shorts allowed. Standing outside in the tropical heat, my friend in tears, the absurdity of the moment was almost funny. Almost. We waited it out, had a reluctant lunch, and returned at 1:30 PM in what I can only describe as a state of grim compliance.

Despite our request that my boyfriend stay with my friend as a translator, we were asked to wait outside while my friend went in alone. She met with an officer, explained the situation in English, and answered various questions. But the conversation kept circling back to one thing: the address of the crime scene. My friend explained the circumstances again – the blackout, her status as a foreign tourist unfamiliar with the city – but the message didn’t land. Without an exact location, the station couldn’t proceed. My friend left the building, met us on the street, and collapsed, crying.

The consulate call

Desperate, we called the German Consulate General in Hồ Chí Minh City. A helpful German-speaking gentleman received us and, after a brief exchange, informed us that the earliest they could offer assistance would be Monday morning. It was half past three on a Friday afternoon, and the weekend had officially begun. German efficiency, it turns out, operates on a strict Monday-to-Friday schedule – even 10,000 kilometers from Berlin. Some things are truly universal.

We were given the contact information for a German-speaking emergency service, which we called immediately – only to discover they were based in Hà Nội, 1,500 kilometers away, and couldn’t help from that distance. Their suggestion: visit a local hospital or the local police. We ended the call.

And then, unexpectedly, the consulate called back. A different voice this time – a woman, compassionate and patient, who spoke directly to my friend. She listened as my friend poured out everything: the night, the odyssey, the doors that kept closing. This woman-to-woman conversation in her native language, after a day of explaining trauma in a second language to strangers, was the first moment that felt like actual support. She advised us to follow up on Monday for legal assistance and referred us to a private clinic nearby that she’d had good experiences with.

The clinic carousel continues

We walked to the recommended clinic. Explained everything again. Filled out forms again. The staff took our concerns seriously and immediately called in the head doctor. But – and by now this had become a grim refrain – the clinic didn’t have the equipment for the required examinations and couldn’t issue official statements. They apologized sincerely and suggested yet another private hospital that might have what we needed.

During the Grab ride there, my friend mentioned that she’d run out of tears. The sadness was being replaced by something flatter – emptiness, mixed with a slow-burning anger at the man who had done this to her. The sheer Kafkaesque absurdity of the day was tearing her apart. She’d been brave and patient and thorough, and every door had led to another door.

At the next hospital, the process was by now familiar: forms, passport, Vietnamese and English explanations, waiting. But this time, she was actually examined. A gynecologist conducted a comprehensive assessment – an informal evaluation of injuries, an intimate health check including ultrasound, and a rapid STD test. Finally being taken seriously, finally getting some answers, brought a wave of relief.

But: a full official examination still required a police report first. The morning-after pill was no longer an option. It was too early to detect pregnancy. And preventive medication for STDs fell under the responsibility of yet another type of clinic. We received an envelope of forms and a bill for 2.27 million đồng, left the hospital, and took another Grab to a specialized clinic.

At the specialized clinic – the last stop of the day – we learned that treatment couldn’t begin yet. The timing since the incident made it inconclusive whether preventive therapy was necessary. We were advised to return in a few weeks.

It was 5 PM. We were drained. Ten hours, six locations, countless forms, and a stack of well-meaning referrals that each pointed somewhere else. We had done everything we knew how to do, and while we had some answers, we had little tangible progress. We went home.

A door that finally opened

The next day, Saturday, another friend stepped in and picked up where we’d left off. After another marathon effort, they managed to secure competent official assistance and get the process moving. It took the combined energy of multiple people across two days to reach the point where things could actually begin.

My friend’s anger and self-doubt persisted for a long time. Piecing together what exactly happened – who was involved, how it happened, what was in that drink – may never be fully possible. But a semblance of justice was pursued, and more importantly, she found the support she needed to begin processing and healing.

What we learned (so you don’t have to learn it this way)

If you ever find yourself in a similar situation – as a victim or as someone supporting a victim – in Việt Nam or anywhere in Southeast Asia, here’s what our odyssey taught us:

• Bring a local speaker.
  Without my boyfriend, we would have been completely stuck. Every single interaction required Vietnamese. If you don’t have a local friend, find a translator – a real person, not Google Translate – before you do anything else.
• Go to a private international hospital with a gynecology department first.
  Don’t start with the government hospital. The private hospitals can’t issue official reports, but they can examine, test, and treat. Get the medical care first, worry about the paperwork second.
• Understand the police report requirement early.
  Official medical examinations require a police referral. This means you need to file a report, which means you need as much location information as possible. If you can, retrace steps, check ride-hailing app history, look at phone GPS data – anything that helps establish where the crime occurred.
• Contact your embassy or consulate – but don’t expect weekend service.
  They can be genuinely helpful with legal referrals and emotional support, but they operate on business hours. The person who called us back was a lifeline, but we got lucky with timing.
• Dress for bureaucracy.
  Long pants at the police station. I wish this were a joke. It’s not. Vietnam and Germany: separated by 10,000 kilometers, united by the conviction that proper attire is a prerequisite for being taken seriously. Pack accordingly.
• Don’t go alone, and don’t give up.
  It took two days, two teams of friends, and more Grab rides than I can count. The system isn’t designed to be cruel – there are many caring, helpful people within it whose hands are tied by procedure and jurisdiction. But navigating it requires stamina, patience, and the willingness to hear “we can’t help you here, try there” without losing hope.
• Know that it will be exhausting and often absurd.
  The gap between the urgency you feel and the pace at which institutions move is the hardest part. Prepare for it. Bring water, bring snacks, bring someone who can hold you when you collapse on the street outside a police station in the tropical heat.

My friend is doing better now. The road from that night to something resembling normalcy was long and winding, and parts of it may never fully heal. But she’s strong, she’s supported, and she’s not defined by what happened to her.

And if you’re reading this because something similar happened to you or someone you care about: you are not alone, it is not your fault, and there are doors that will open. You just might have to knock on more of them than you’d expect.

Wear long pants.

Hero image: Photo taken by me.